I, Superhero

by David Atchison

  Forty Three

  Phoebe offers her hand to Ernest.

  He grabs it; she helps him stumble the last few feet out of water and onto dry land. As soon as Phoebe gets her husband upright, she throws her arms around him, buries her head in his neck. He smells, quite literally, like shit. Like stagnant pond water, rotted fish, and shit.

  She doesn’t care.

  Phoebe breaks the embrace. Her front side—including an almost imperceptible start of a month-three baby bump—is now just as soggy as Ernest’s entire body.

  Looking on, Flynn’s eyes radiate with relief… and maybe even affection. When Ernest approaches, however, she retreats a step. Offers to shake hands. Let’s not get carried away.

  All three Smiths turn at the crunch of tires as they roll over dirt and gravel.

  Ryland Washington, behind the wheel, pulls the Smith Subaru to a stop. The police chief steps out, drapes an arm holding a towel over the driver’s side door, then surveys the damage to the tree. And damage to the Taurus.

  He frowns, then nods once, addressing himself as much as anyone. ‘I guess she asked to use it, not bring it back.’

  Ernest allows himself a sideways smile. ‘She does that.’

  Phoebe is already on the move. ‘We need our car again.’ She holds out her hand; Ryland tosses her the keys. Then the towel. ‘Any word on Fergus?’

  ‘An inbound ambulance spotted a silver Camry.’

  Phoebe wipes brown water from her neck. ‘Where the hell could he have been going?’

  Ernest and Flynn are trailing close behind Phoebe as all three head for the Subaru. Phoebe tosses the towel to Ernest, who uses it to wipe muck from his face and arms. ‘I think I know. Honey, you drive.’

  Phoebe has already opened the driver’s side door. ‘Don’t I always?’

  ---

  The narrow bridge runs north and south over this little tributary of the Missouri called Moose Run Creek, despite no moose having ever set hoof within 500 miles of Missouri. The creek is only about thirty or forty feet wide. The stream is narrow but looks quite deep at this point so close to the Missouri River. Steep banks rise from the water’s edges. The bridge crossing the Moose Run, then, isn’t more than twenty yards long.

  Just about right, Fergus thinks.

  Under the simple truss bridge, water moves placidly along, or at least placidly until the Moose Run meets the Missouri, and then begins crashing through the levee break just a few yards from where the two waterways join. Fergus parks the Camry just off the side of the road on the bridge’s northern edge. He hops out of the car, hurries over to the nearest strut, then pokes his head between two of the many crisscrossing iron beams supporting the bridge’s weight, rising to his tiptoes to look below and then out toward the river. From this vantage point, he can easily see the damage being done as the water seeks a new level.

  Now, for the tricky part. Plugging that hole in the dam.

  Fergus pushes himself back from the galvanized trusses and scampers the length of the bridge, shaking out his right hand. The Pratt-style truss is old and rickety, something from a previous generation. Probably in need of repair and/or an update. Judging from the patina of rust covering the metal, it’s received neither, a stroke of fortune which should make the job that much easier. Even still, what he’s got in mind will likely tax all his previous training and abilities.

  He arrives at the bridge’s southern side and takes a quick moment to re-cinch his supersuit gauntlets. They remain fastened snug against his forearms. Good. He then balls his hand into a tight fist, and then releases his thumb, index, and middle fingers with a sudden flick of the wrist. A tight column of bright yellow flame erupts forth.

  His hand is now the world’s largest—and hottest—welder’s torch.

  Fergus uses all his willpower to keep the flame focused on the vertical connector closest to the diagonal end post. Molten iron drips onto the pavement at his feet. Tiny droplets careen off of his right wrist, and he’s instantly grateful to his sister for the fire-retardant gauntlets protecting his forearms.

  Within seconds, the first of the support beams has been severed at the joint. The rickety old bridge groans in dismay. That’s one down, three to go. Fergus dashes across both lanes of the bridge, take a deep breath, and flicks his thumb and forefinger again. He immediately gets cracking on support beam number two.

  He turns to a sudden noise, however, just as the metal joint begins to weaken. It’s the high-pitched whine of a motorcycle engine, approaching from his flank, and fast.

  A black motorcycle rounds the bend just beyond where Fergus parked the Camry. The motorcycle draws a bead on his position, its rider dressed in dark leather with orange accents, wearing a black helmet, sunlight glinting off of its surface. What’s more, the rider bears a… what the hell?

  Fergus pauses, losing concentration, the flame is his hand extinguished. Whoever is on that bike wields a long metal something, and that something looks a lot like a jousting lance used by a medieval knight. The bike whizzes past the parked Camry and hits the bridge, not slowing, not altering course. Fergus realizes that if he doesn’t react, he’ll either be knocked into oblivion, or run through like a pig on a spit.

  Fergus ducks into a tight crouch just as the motorcycle screams by, passing not more than a foot from his ear. A shower of sparks rains down on Fergus’s back, and Fergus is thankful he ducked. He’s also thankful he had doused the flame in his hand before doing so, else his right foot would now be a pile of ash.

  Fergus pivots, letting the sparks bounce off his back. He watches the motorcycle screech to a stop just beyond the bridge’s south end. The figure on the bike then dismounts, giving Fergus a chance to take a second look at the weapon in the man’s right hand.

  No. That’s not quite right. The long, metallic lance starts to retract, shrinking, reshaping itself. In seconds, it reconfigures into the form of a human hand, which is now used to remove the rider’s black helmet.

  Fergus rises from his squatting position. He hears a pop of metal giving way and feels the buckle of pavement under his feet; the south end of the bridge is now officially unfit to support anything heavier than a human body. Fergus then swallows, the bitter taste of fear fresh on his palate. The thing with the man’s right arm can only mean one thing: he’s now face to face with the one Dad warned him about.

  And Fergus thought he was scared of Nixon Trombley.

  The rider takes a deep breath and exhales, annoyed. Whether at Fergus, or at himself for not striking his target, Fergus can’t say.

  ‘That your supersuit?’ the man finally asks.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Well.’ Jupiter Blackshear responds. ‘You look like a dick.’

  Hoping his tone provides effective cover for his state of mind, Fergus replies. ‘I’ll pass along word to my designer.’

  Jupiter sets the helmet atop the bike seat. ‘What the hell is wrong with you people, huh?’ he asks. ‘Let me spell this out for you: there is some water down there. It’s running over some land. Big. Fucking. Deal.’

  ‘There are families down there, too.’

  ‘So? They can move, or they can drown. Either way is fine by me. Either way, just let this thing play out. You Smiths aren’t gonna save the entire planet. OK?’ Jupiter snaps his fingers. ‘Oops, someone in Bangladesh just died of food poisoning.’ He snaps again. ‘Oops, another one in Florida died after catching the flu.’ One more snap of Jupiter’s fingers. ‘And aw, dammit, there goes four more—tour bus crash while some backpacking stoners were on a trek to visit Machu Picchu. People die every day. And it doesn’t affect any of you Smith reprobates. One. Tiny. Bit.’

  Jupiter turns his palms to the sky. ‘So I’m gonna ask you nicely: get in your car and go home. In fact, go save your dad. He’s back there stuck on a roof because he was trying to rescue a couple of old people with the smarts of a turkey.’

  Fergus flicks open his right hand. It glows, red and angry. ‘Don’t think so. But I’ll make you th
e same offer.’

  ‘Son. Listen to me. Whatever it is you’ve got in your hand. Put it down.’ Jupiter Blackshear begins pacing toward Fergus, his right arm held away from his body, poised to do… something, though Fergus can’t say exactly what.

  Fergus considers the tight ball of flame in his hand. He looks back at Jupiter and wrinkles his nose in disdain. ‘You can check with my dad on this one, but I don’t listen to adults very well.’

  With a grunt of effort, Fergus swings his arm forward as though throwing baseball. The pitch is high and tight. And flammable.

  A lopsided fireball the size of a grapefruit hurtles through the air.

  The former city councilman is too quick, however, and too prepared. He ducks just at the fireball is upon him. Fergus sees an explosion of orange and yellow, obscuring Jupiter for a moment. From beneath the flames, Fergus sees a large, curved shield the color of stainless steel.

  The effort of launching the fireball has left Fergus out of breath.

  Jupiter stands. His arm/shield retracts, taking on the shape of his right hand once again. ‘Not bad. Not the worst Power you could have chosen. You’ll be a lot of fun around a campfire,’ Jupiter says. ‘Except, see, I’ve got this.’ Jupiter wiggles his fingers. And I was just going to stop you.’ Jupiter’s arm falls to his side. ‘Not now.’ He splays his fingers, and digits become individual lengths of chain-linked metal, each barbed, each looking like it will tear flesh from the body. Fergus recognizes the shape as a cat-o-nine-tails, normally only seen in Flynn’s graphic novels chock full of medieval oddities. It’s also something I don’t want hitting me, Fergus thinks. He considers his training, and thinks about the advice Dad gave him about this exact situation: what to do if confronted one-on-one by Jupiter.

  He runs in the direction of the Camry.

  Were his father here to observe, however, he’d be most displeased. True to form, Fergus hasn’t exactly taken Dad’s advice to heart. He crosses the center line of the road, running diagonally from left to right as fast as he can. In his peripheral vision, Fergus sees Jupiter pause, shoulders slumped, watching the fleeing teen.

  Mid-stride, Fergus warms up the right arm. Because he isn’t running away. He’s running to finish the job he started.

  Chest heaving from effort, Fergus aims another small column of concentrated flame at the first iron connector on the bridge's north end, matching what he’s already done to the opposite side. He makes quick work of the third support and hears a crack of concrete buckling as the truss gives way—a signal from the bridge that his plan is falling in to place. He chances a quick glance to his left.

  Jupiter has fallen to one knee on the bridge’s opposite side, having apparently stumbled as the pavement lurched under his feet. Jupiter then stands and begins walking the length of the bridge.

  ‘Fer-GUSSS!’

  Fergus scampers to the last remaining support. The bridge groans in displeasure while the boy scowls in concentration, trying to saw through the support beam as rapidly as physics will allow. Fergus’s stubborn streak is in full bloom—he decides that he’d sooner die than fail at his task.

  Jupiter breaks into a jog, closing the distance. At ten yards, he begins swinging the cat-o-nine-tails over his head.

  There’s a groan of metal. Another crack forms, this one visible in the concrete below Fergus’s feet. Using his left hand, he grabs for the part of the metal strut still anchored to land.

  Jupiter is upon him now. The cat-o-nine-tails whistles through the air.

  Fergus ducks. He drives his right fist into the fissure just at his feet while Jupiter’s weapon claws at his back. Fergus cries out in pain, and fear, just as he releases the last of his thermal energy through his right fist. With three of the bridge's four main supports joints now severed, Fergus figures—make that hopes—that a small explosion, combined with the weight of the bridge, will take out the fourth.

  The sound of the truss’s death rattle shakes Fergus’s chest just as he feels the blow from Jupiter’s weapon across his back. The carbon fiber supersuit protects Fergus, or at least protects him well enough. The cat’s claws scratch, and the impact nearly knocks the wind from Fergus’s lungs, but the sharpened barbs aren’t able to grip flesh.

  He looks down, sees a huge seam opening in the concrete slab at his feet. He also now sees a man several feet below. It’s only then that Fergus realizes: it worked, or at least this part did. Jupiter Blackshear is affixed to the section of bridge falling into the creek while Fergus clings to the section of bridge still anchored to land.

  Fergus watches, legs dangling mid-air, while Jupiter continues his tumble. With a thunderous splash, both the section of bridge and the man crash into the waters below. The impact sends Jupiter ass-over-teakettle into the brown water, perhaps to float down the river indefinitely, or even to a watery grave. Right now, Fergus gives exactly zero shits about what’s become of Jupiter Blackshear.

  What he does care about is the section of bridge he’s just sent into Moose Run. Fergus hauls himself back onto the flat ground overlooking both bodies of water so he can get a better sense of whether or not his entire idea to stop the flood might succeed. With a sigh of exhaustion and relief, Fergus sees that the section of bridge has displaced enough water to make it buoyant (Thanks, physics!), and is now slowly creeping into the Missouri River. Whatever happens now, he’s done his part.

  Then, disaster strikes.

  It doesn’t look like much.

  Fergus simply turns his head, and that does the trick. He turns to the sound of his family’s Outback as it approaches from around the bend Jupiter appeared from just moments ago. Fergus smiles at the sight of his mother and sister. Mom parks behind the Camry, Flynn opens the passenger door. Fergus sees dark hair streaked with lavender emerge just above the door frame. He then wrinkles his brow at the absence of a third figure.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ Fergus shouts.

  ‘No clue, Flynn shouts back. ‘He told us to let him out about a mile back. Said he didn’t have time—’

  ‘It’s Dad we’re talking about.’ Fergus smiles, already walking toward the Outback.

  The disaster was the distraction. Were Fergus to have kept his eyes on the two waterways, he would have seen the speedboat making its way up the Missouri. He would have noticed the man piloting the boat, and would have been able to warn his dad. A life-altering disaster caused by the smallest of distractions.

  Then again, so few of life’s disasters look like ones at the time they occur.

  Forty Four

  Ernest Smith progresses, quite literally, by leaps and bounds.

  He turns the mile-long stretch of prairie grass, ragweed, and cattail that lie between the side of the road and the breach in the Missouri River levee into a mere 50-yard dash. When he lands on the pathway running the levee’s length, his heels dig into fine white gravel.

  First Ernest checks to his left and surveys the damage to the levee. A section about thirty yards long just… gone. The river cascades through, churning up white froth as it passes from higher to lower ground. The sound created as river flows through this wound in the levee is surprisingly muted. Based on his experiences at the mansion and the school and the housing development and a hundred others, he’s used to destruction making more noise.

  He now glances right, looking at the intersection of the Moose Run and the Missouri, already fairly certain what he’ll see. Yep. There it is: a section of bridge floats his way, one that should be just about perfect for plugging a levee breach.

  Well done, Fergus, Ernest thinks. The kid is a quick study.

  Except now for the tricky part: maneuvering it into place.

  Ernest scrambles down the twenty feet of steeply sloped berm that normally keeps the wide Missouri flowing peacefully toward downtown St. Louis. In seconds, he arrives at the junction between creek and river and scans the length of bridge creeping along. He spots a couple of good handholds—lengths of thick rebar protruding from the concrete.

  T
hank God for superstrength, Ernest thinks with a small bit of amusement. Maybe the cross-clutching old woman he just saved should be here to witness this.

  The huge slab slows to a halt at the junction, lodging itself in a spit of mud. It’s no more than ten feet from the river’s edge, however, and Ernest wades into the water, grabbing for the rebar handholds. He squats, anchoring himself into soft earth so that his body can serve as pivot—

  A chunk of concrete explodes. Ernest flinches as tiny fragments of rock pelt his face. What in the holy hell? Is the bridge rigged with explosives?

  Ernest hears the echo of a firecracker—or something similar—bouncing off the riverbank walls. Still clutching the rebar, he cautiously lifts his head above the mass of concrete.

  There. A bit over fifty yards away, he sees a powerful speedboat. A bullet-shaped hull of loud white with accents streaking down the sides. Something built for quickly navigating mile markers during weekends at the lake. Something purchased by men who buy German sports sedans, and expensive watches, and the very latest phones so they can text hi-res dick pics. Ernest sees two men in the boat: one standing, the other lying prone, pointing something in Ernest’s direction.

  There’s a sharp, bee-like buzz somewhere close to Ernest’s head, followed by another firecracker pop. He’s squinting into the sun and can’t make out exact details concerning either the boat or the men, but the gunfire means only one thing: the one standing at the boat’s helm is Jupiter Blackshear, and the man lying prone, using Ernest for target practice, is the creature known as Bob. The thing might not be able to speak, Ernest thinks, but he’s not a bad shot.

  Ernest considers his options. The supersuit offers some protection. Other than that, the only countermeasure available is the one he was planning on using anyway.

  So he uses it.

  Ernest twists his feet into the soft earth. Every muscle in his arms and legs becomes knotted in effort, every vein in his neck and forehead strains and bulges. Nothing.